


numb

by Drbwho



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-10 10:06:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6978940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drbwho/pseuds/Drbwho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s cold,” he says, but offers no other words to her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [i can't understand myself anymore  
> but i'm still feeling lonely  
> feeling so unholy]

Her feet are moving softly against the cool ground, walking familiar paths once more. For a moment she can almost pretend she is a girl again, and her steps grow light, the mere idea of youth and ignorance breathing strange life into her limbs. It is a sensation she is grateful for, for however long it might last this time. Of course she is not old, but she feels ancient inside, the years spent amongst monsters weighing her down like a heavy stone as she notices the differences in her old home, the signs that someone else had taken it from her, even if they have it back now. Bruises long healed still linger, as do the insults; the claws are still embedded deep, unwilling to pry free from their hold on her. It shadows her eyes, pales her face, darkens the moments of reunion and restoration.

He sees it. She knows he does.

It is dark, and her brother ( _half-brother_ ) has already initiated rebuilding their home. Her room, for example, is very much the same as she remembered now. It was a gift, the first renovation, and she had smiled and hugged him tightly and was happy. Of course, when night fell it seemed more a curse than a blessing, her past self haunting her, the empty bed of her sister intentionally not added as new furniture. Sansa can almost hear her voice, teasing her, taunting her. She wonders if Jon misses her. Most likely, more than she did; they had always been close, hadn’t they? Sansa consults her memory, one that works almost like a maze now, wandering down hopeless twists and turns to happier times.

The girl, and she is still a girl, even after everything, pushes the memories away for now. They hurt.

The ground is almost unbearably cold, but she pays no heed to the warnings on her skin, simply moving faster along the route she chose. Her destination would not be known or witnessed; the benefit, she supposed, of growing up here, learning the hidden doors and turns, the forgotten walkways. She knows where he stays, the modest quarters across the castle, and that path seemed the easiest one to take when there was no light in the sky to console her.

Some of the Vale army lingers to help. It is an excuse. She thinks it will be a while longer yet. She wonders why.

But she does not need to wonder, really.

There is no guard at his door; she hadn’t considered it, really, but now it seemed she hadn’t needed to anyway. It takes nothing, no hesitation or effort on her part, to open the door and let herself in. It is unlocked, _unlocked_ , but when she closed it behind her she makes sure to remedy that. And she stares, merely watching, gooseflesh on her arms and the back of her neck rising to warn her, as if her skin could save her (she knows by now that there is nothing that could save her…she is lost and lost and lost).

A form is on the bed, presumably sleeping, although she has never seen him sleep. His chest rises and falls under a mass of furs, even and not startled by her entrance. The man’s back is facing her, his head, the side of his greying temple, peeking from the blankets, and for long minutes she just watches him. She counts his breath, she considers her actions, past and current and future.

He stirs. His body turns, rotates slowly until his spine rests on the bed and he can meet her stare. Greenish eyes seem bright even in the dark, and he shows no sign of lingering sleep. Her own fingers do not twist awkwardly along each other, she does not pace or squirm at his raised eyebrow. She is different now, not the silly girl wishing to marry a prince, not the innocent thing wishing for a fairy tale. She is a broken thing, mending too slowly, the hurt coming to shape the creature she is becoming. 

He sees it.

It is strange then, as his arm moves almost tentatively to lift the furs, even as he makes no move to vacate the bed. The space is empty between his extended arm and herself, but there is still an expanse between herself and where he remains. “It’s cold,” he says, but offers no other words to her. There is no sorry on his lips. He has apologised already, she reminds herself, but she wonders if she would be here this evening, still, even if he hadn’t said those words.

He is advising now, and Jon thinks he is useful. He is thankful for the help, and for the untouched army that seemed to have been waiting for a Stark return. Sansa doesn’t tell him. Of course she doesn’t. Not about the necklace or the moon door or the kisses. Not about the snow castle or the lessons or the angry meeting in the North. She wonders what Jon would do if he knew, but she worries little about it. Even Ramsay is still alive, tucked away in the cells, his still-working heart stealing a beat of her own each time it thumps.

Petyr will not tell, she knows, and she saw the look on his face when Jon made the decision to let him live, mirroring her father’s nobility, the same nobility that led him to King’s Landing, to death. He wants him dead, too, although she is certain not as much as she does.

Sansa does not notice her feet moving, moving, until knees nearly pressed the bed. And she can not remember sinking down into the welcoming furs (it was cold, after all, and it looked so warm, _he_ looked so warm) or allowing him to cover her with the blankets. His scent was all around her, his body heat, and for a moment she tensed, unwanted memories of a touch harsher than his flooding her senses, threatening to undo her.

He does not touch her again that night, sharing the furs but nothing further, waking her in the predawn hour with a soft word so she could creep back to her room, a knowing smile on his face, but what he knew she could not say.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [i'm fooling somebody  
> a faithless path to roam  
> deceiving to breath this secretly  
> this silence, a silence i can't bear]

During the day she does not speak with him, at least not directly. It is not a matter of distance that prevents it; she sees him each day at meals, and during the long meetings held by the new Stark that holds the North. He is always in attendance now, sitting next to her brother, even in the most private of conferences. Sansa wonders if she is perhaps a part of the reason the young ruler allows him to stay, consults him as he does. Jon knows he saved her, after all, rescued her from the den of lions, but he seems altogether ignorant of the proximity they have shared. The isolation of the eyrie, the stares, the kiss, the fall…

He does not catch her eye when the sun is up. She does not seek that greyish-green stare; she does not want to see. If she doesn’t look, she can pretend it isn’t there, she tells herself.

Slowly, and she thinks it is possible he does not even know it himself, Jon begins to rely on him for a number of things. It starts innocently enough, ravens sent before he has a need to ask or alliances he forges using his southern influence. It grows, his roots taking hold in Jon’s mind and in the cold earth beneath Winterfell, branching downward, weaving deep. She watches with fascination, she sees what they are missing. The girl ought to be angry, she ought to warn Jon of the man he was placing trust in, but she holds her tongue, observes instead.

She remembers who taught her such things. 

He has done it, she thinks as she listens to the plans they make, and she can not help but be impressed. The table is covered in coloured stones that play the role of armies, placed strategically on points of import on the cloth map. Jon nods at Lord Baelish a few times before they retire for the evening, not bothering to hide how much he has come to depend on his cleverness, on his knowledge of the lands they sought to defend. No one calls him Littlefinger here, no one even knows that name save the remains of the Vale army, and he chose those lingering few well. She notes that Royce is gone, she notes the lords who questioned his paramount status are no where to be found.

His is new again. And she is weary.

And yes, he has done it, making new allies out of the ash of old friendships, the Lannister name is nothing more than a memory now that snow was under his boots. For a moment she considers that might be Jon soon, snow under his fine soles, and as much as she tries to push that thought aside it does not leave. A friendship built on selfishness alone will never end well, and what is Petyr Baelish if not the most selfish of men? She still can not guess his plan, not entirely. She can guess pieces, but the puzzle is incomplete, fractured. It keeps her silent, it keeps her alert, it keeps her awake in her bed despite her heavy eyelids and fatigued limbs. She does not sleep well alone anymore.

At night there is no steely resolve, no pretending she does not know the man that lives restless and chaotic underneath that pleasant, helpful mask. She should not walk that path, she tells herself even as she opens his door once more. It has been weeks of this, night after night of sharing this bed, of a soft _goodnight_ and nothing more. Long moments of blissful sleep and nothing more. A whisper to rouse her awake before the sun dared to rise and nothing more.

They do not speak, they do not _need_ to speak. Jon pretends he does not see the fractures inside her, and it makes it worse. Every man and woman here knows, the details a staple of hushed gossip. The stares of pity torment her sometimes. Petyr sees it on her, of course he does, and she thinks if he were to kiss her, to drag his tongue across her neck he would taste it as well. But he doesn’t. He sleeps, he welcomes her without word or touch. He bears it differently, watches her without pity; it is something like sameness she sees in him, and it startles her. 

 

One morning she wakes after the sun. The light spills in, bathing them in soft colours, and her chest is warm, her arms are warm. Against her is breath, an ebbing chest meeting hers, and she realises she has pressed herself to him in sleep. Her ankles twine loosely with his, the shift she wears hitched enough for skin to touch skin. This is a level of intimacy she has never been a part of, this closeness, and she trembles before she can still herself. She feels his breathing change, hasten just slightly, just enough for her to notice. He wakes, and the way his form tenses against her tells her this was not his doing. For a handful of seconds neither moves, for a handful of seconds they are both of them off guard, adrift. 

Her fingers tighten in his tunic; she is holding him. She does not dare open her eyes, but she can taste his breath when her lips part. It is familiar, one of the only things she is familiar with anymore. Memories spark, the way he has kissed her before, tender and kind and decidedly not the man who sits in her brother’s war room. She almost closes the distance; her body begins to angle when he speaks. His voice is quiet, and she refuses to look at him, preferring the darkness behind her lids.

“It’s morning,” he says. _It’s dangerous now_ , he does not need to say.

She does not look at him until her hand is on the door. He smiles, she catches it as she leaves. It is a smile she cannot discern. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [i can't find my way  
> been searching, but i have never seen  
> a turning, a turning from deceit]

It takes months for anything to change, but it _does_ change.

Jon leaves for a fortnight. It is his first trip away from their reclaimed home, the first time he goes away for longer than a day, and it speaks volumes to both their allies and their enemies. Winterfell is theirs again once more, this tactic shows. Their leader is secure enough, their hold is secure enough while the Lord is away. It is a manoeuvre, intentional but also necessary; there is still a war, after all, and they cannot be content in watching the rest of the world fester. Jon, as much as he has learned, is still very much a product of his upbringing; Ned Stark's sense of nobility and justice live on. 

It is part of the reason, she thinks, that she is still a married woman. Her husband lives, she feels tired. 

She hears Petyr in Jon’s voice when he explains this to her, and she wonders when this decision was made. It must have been away from their daily meetings, for Sansa does not miss them for anything. It must have been a private conversation, and the girl suddenly feels foolish. How often does the wolf consult the mockingbird now? How many suggestions does the bird sing into the young lord’s ear? She wants to shake Jon and call him an idiot, she wants to hug him and tell him to be careful. She does neither, in the end. Her words are polite and careful when she wishes him farewell, and she notices that while the temporary venture reeks of Baelish’s doing he does not accompany them.

Two weeks, and what sort of schemes can a man get up to in those long hours of relative freedom?

 

Sansa tasks herself to help fix her home. She asks what her people need, she tries to provide what she can, as limited as their supplies and manpower still are. It is a relief, to keep herself busy, to forget who still lives in the cells she avoids. Her eyes flit around often, vigilant and wary, ignoring the question on the faces of those she helps; she will not let herself remain a victim. Her spine is straight, the words on her tongue are sure and kind, even as she is still withered inside.

She does not see him often during the days now, since there are no meetings to attend. She wonders where he goes, what he does. He, of course, does not tell her, and she does not ask. Part of her doesn't want to know. 

Her own bed is cold, and if the servants who tend to her room notice it they do not say. His bed is doubly warm, the pillows smelling of the flowery scents of the soaps Jon had gifted her and the mint that he still chews. How he comes by it she does not know, and asking would break the silence, so she does not. It is not uncomfortable, the quiet between them, but it is waiting for something, something neither seem prepared for.

Sometimes she wakes with her back pressed against his chest, others they are resting far away from one another, but she does not skip a night with him. The ratio tilts, and she does not remember the first night she slips into the bed and directly into his waiting embrace. The pretence is gone now, evaporated in place of strange comfort. His arms fits around her waist, she sighs, his breathing is calm and soothing. Occasionally he strokes her hair with gentle fingers before she dozes. They still do not speak.

 

Two weeks pass and he returns. 

Jon is going to ask him to stay. It is true enough he needs the help of a man well versed in southern politics, and many of his knowledgeable friends have fallen in the past battles. He trusts him, her brother tells her, and she almost laughs when he says it. She can taste the laugh like ash in her throat. Still, she does not warn him. It is terrible, that she is so curious that she continues to hold her tongue. Duty falls swiftly away to intrigue, water through parted fingers. Sansa wonders when she became so much like him. She is angry with herself and proud in equal measure, and try as she might not one of them wins out through the struggle.

He asks her what she thinks of it. She does not give him an answer. She does not have one for him.

 

They are abed, apart, although she is close enough to reach him with bended elbow if she dared. Her eyes are narrow, and she is wide awake. Can he see the flush on her in the dim light of the room, one candle lit behind him on the table? She thinks he could see it without the glow of fire, but she is not so foolish now to think he knows everything. There is much he does not know, and much he has missed in the past, if his apologetic words in a dilapidated building a year ago were true.

She chooses this moment to speak at last; he has been waiting for her to tear down the barrier. And so she asks: “Will you stay?” It is simple, quiet, and yet sounding loud into the silence, a whispered cacophony.

He is amused as he watches, perhaps wondering why this is how she decides to break the comfortable silence, but he answers her the way she expects him to. His hand extends, index curling in stray locks of hair, but he does not make a move to pull her near. “Would you like that?”

It is a mirror of Jon’s earlier question, and she wonders if either truly value her opinion. If she tells Jon to send him away would he do it? If she tells Petyr to go would he begin to pack his things in the next breath? She is stupid, she tells herself, if she thinks the words of a ruined almost-widow, Stark or no, has such influence as that.

And yet, _they might._

In the end, she tells him the truth. “I don’t know.” And she kisses him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [a lady of war
> 
> a lady of war]

It is simple, the faintest of presses. It is not harsh or needy, and she does now quite know why she does it. He does not move, he does not do _anything_ ; his hands remain where there are, one at his side and one still twined among hair, and his mouth does not attempt to make a claim. For a moment she stays where she is, his lips warm against hers. For a moment she forgets. The moment fades in the end, and she swallows thickly as she pulls back. Eyes open (when had she closed them?) and she sees he seems to have lost his breath. There is no cleverness to his eyes; there is something like wonder. She considers that wonder would not be the most difficult emotion to feign if he was seeking to gain her favour. 

Love, love would be harder. She does not see love in greenish grey. She exhales. 

The air is heavy, a smothering thing around them, and despite the cold of the room she is terribly, irremediably warm. She feels, _feels_ , and it is the first time in so long. Inside this room he is not the man who ties invisible, guiding strings to her brother’s wrists. Inside this room she welcomes him. Her slender fingers reach for his jaw, his stubble from the day pricking her soft skin. She watches his face, waiting to be proven wrong, waiting to see the hint of a lie.

If it happens, she misses it. Perhaps she is as easily fooled as Jon, after all.

She wishes she knew for certain, but she wonders if she would like the answer. Sansa looks at him once more, truly looks at him, and she sees that he is drowning, a mirror of the twisting of her insides and warming of her bones. “Sweetling,” he breathes, and it is enough to press her to him again. Her mouth takes his, and he lets her. Her lips part for him when he seeks to press his tongue inward for a taste. He hums into her, it is a sound she cannot help but return.

The dance does not last very long; one or both of them come back to themselves in short order, the impropriety of it all glaring at both of them as the sun rises. Her arms stay around his a little longer this morning, wishing the dawn away. His nails hint at digging into her waist, but it seems evident he is willing to let her do the leading. He knows she has been hurt.

 

Jon leaves again, Sansa pretends she does not see the tilt of a smirk as Petyr Baelish sees him off, his own boots planted firmly in Winterfell’s hold. Her brother cannot say for certain when he will return. Negotiating is difficult, he says, and she can hear her father’s foolish patience in his tone. When she hears herself respond she can feel Littlefinger’s air in her lungs, drawing diplomatic, placating words instead of the warnings that boil so close to the edge. She is worried she will do something foolish, but as he disappears in the distance the girl realises that it is already too late.

She cannot see the strings on her own wrists, but that does not mean they are not there. But how to cut them without enraging the puppeteer?

 

The moon is falling, but light has only just spilled along the horizon. It is luck she is not caught leaving his room. She tells the men that intercept her she is seeking out water when they find her in the long hallway back to her own room. It is not a relief to discover that they had been searching for her to give her urgent news. It seems neither want to tell her the purpose of seeking her out; the words are heavy on their tongues. Panic seeps in; she thinks Jon is dead, she thinks they are afraid to tell her.

But it isn't Jon.

He tried to escape, they say, stern palms facing outward to block her advance. But she wants to see, she wants to be certain. If she doesn’t see the body she knows she will question it forever, see his shadow on her heels until the end of her days.

He escaped, they say again when she persists, and Petyr is beside her then, nodding to the armoured men to allow her passage.

When did he come to control the guards? When?

_When?_

Still, she moves forward, the urge to confirm the news paramount to all other emotions. Bare feet are swift in the snow; she barely feels the cold, and she’d had no time to slip on boots. Her hair is wild, wild in a way she never was ( _Arya_ was the wild one), her nightgown her only covering. It is unseemly, but the early morning means the only ones present are the men who fought with her for their home, and they will not begrudge her this.

The body is mangled, crumpled, arrows embedded in his back. He looks small, he looks harmless, but he does not look innocent. Sansa has seen enough of him to know it is not a trick, but she cannot help the cold terror that shoots down her spine. She in angry and relieved at once; there is too much blood, and his body is too blue for there to be any life in him. His eyes are open, staring at the snow, staring at nothing at all.

How did he escape, she asks the small crowd, how?

There is no answer, there are a few shrugs. One of them glances askance to the mockingbird.

She knows. 

And she is a widow. And she can see a little more of the man's game. 

 

She knows he did it, and she knows that Jon would not have. Her relief almost hurts; she had forgotten how to feel safe. She is not sure that’s what she feels now, or that she might ever truly feel security any longer, but the sensation is old and familiar, a ghost of her former life.

This time when she kisses him it is not a fleeting thing. The girl has never kissed this way, or been kissed this way. She has never lost her breath in another, never drank so deeply into someone who was not herself. Ramsay took, and Joffrey took, and certainly Petyr took as well, but he also gives. His tongue dips, tasting, and her spine curves into him.

  
His fingers grazed her side, light and testing, no more than soft grazes. He is waiting; he knows she knows, and he smiles. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [i am one  
> damned  
> one]

She imagines it as a game, the way they move against each other, the silent dares to end the kisses, the fleeting touches, the counters for more and closer. But eventually, the game falls away to more heated pursuits, a mutual desire to call a truce to schemes. When her fingers slip beneath the loose silk and along his chest he does not retreat. When his own slide up her shift, his palm firm on her now-bare thigh, she is unafraid. Her skin is warm; it’s a pleasant feeling, and she finds herself eager for his touch.

It is strange to be unafraid. She knows it will hurt, doesn’t it always hurt? Sansa has done this dance before; she is no untouched flower. In fact, she has been touched more than some, handled more brutally than she assumes most women have been. Can he feel that on her, the damage? She is a used thing, and she has heard the gossip of her people; is a Stark as used as she is still a Stark? Those whispers have died off with Ramsay, but they fester in her heart still, clawing.

A bastard and a twice-married girl are all that remain of a legacy. This, she thinks, is what nobility and justice have wrought for them. 

If he notices her insecurity he is hiding it well, or ignoring it in favour of lust. His eyes close for a second longer than they ought to, his mouth parts when she moves to cover him with her bare form. This is different, and she feels it deep within, as her blood pumps faster, her breath hastening as if she is sprinting. She wants him. She had never wanted Ramsay.

He is hard along her stomach, pressing up against her for a modicum of relief. She can see he is trying to steel himself, to let her lead, but he is breaking. He is breaking and she is broken and the dampness between her legs is new and shameful. Sansa closes her eyes, her hand reaching for his, leading him to help her, to show her.

It doesn’t hurt, she does not need to wince or cry out when she sinks down onto him. There is a fullness, a sweet slide into her, and the gasp that escapes her is a surprise. She had learned to be quiet in the past; her rotting, dead husband had not liked it when she cried out, but she can see so clearly that Petyr will enjoy her sounds. His eyes widen, his fingers press a little harder into her thighs and she rocks into him, testing.

For a woman taken so often before she is not experienced; she has no knowledge of how to move against him from this angle, but he is nothing if not patient. He wears the smile of a winner, and there is enough adoration mingled in greenish-grey that she is able to excuse the smugness there. She tilts her hips and _oh_ , how he groans! It is intoxicating, uncontrolled, and it is a wonderful thing to make the man who pulls the strings sing the way he does. Sansa is a quick study then, drawing out the sounds she likes until there is a burning in her as well, new and unfamiliar and nothing like the nights spent bent over her marriage bed. She is a wolf, truly now; she chases.

Outside of his room, amongst cold air and cold men and a cold world he might be the secret predator. For now, she has a little songbird in her teeth.

He moans, he pulls her closer, he slips a hand between her leg and now she is the one singing. Is this how the dance is meant to go, truly? Her hips seek more, and his fingers oblige, and now they are both lost in the movement, lost in each other. He is leading her somewhere and she lets him, his gasping murmurs of approval encouraging a quicker tempo, a deeper press, and how his clever digits tease.

She used to think the sounds she heard women make during lovemaking were false things meant to encourage a hastier end for their lover. The girl finds now she is wrong, and the whines that he draws from her are true, and she watches him drink them up greedily as she finally, thankfully, shatters around him, lingering, sated whimpers caught by his open mouth as he bucks into her a handful of times before his own end.

This part is familiar. The warmth of seed, the softening inside her. Her body clenches around him, atop him, heavy with fatigue and satisfaction. Before dawn she will leave once more, and she will spend the day pretending they aren't now lovers, but she will seek him out once more come nightfall. She does not try and pretend this will never happen again.

There is silence for a while, until she feels his heart slow with his breathing, until she falls to his side. He wraps an arm around her, keeping her close, burying his face in her neck. She has never been kissed like this before, and she squirms. It tickles. She smiles.

But of course this is Petyr Baelish, and she would do well to remember that not all monsters use teeth and nails and swords to hurt.

“You were made to be a queen.” He says. It is not what she hears. _You are going to be a queen_ is what shape his words take in her mind, the sentiment she pulls from his inflection and what she has learned from him in years spent together. She is afraid, for the first time. She is afraid of what he will do, she is afraid of what she will allow him to do.

She wonders if he is waiting for something. Waiting to slide the knife across her throat until the right moment, until he doesn’t need her.

She wonders if she would feel it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i lied. i'll do a few more chapters since i've had some requests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [naked  
> my thoughts are creeping  
> too late  
> the show has begun]

She is atop him, and it is weeks after that first consummation, since the last threads of propriety finally snapped. She is a atop him and moving, gasping, bared to him as he lifts his hips to oblige her frantic movements, forcing himself deeper, allowing her to feel him entirely. Her palms are on his chest, feeling his moans more than truly hearing them. Lips allow hitched whines to escape in return, an equal give and take, a balance that he willingly teaches and she eagerly absorbs. There is a fluidity now that did not exist the first several times; the caution and trepidation of discovering personal pleasures had gradually fallen away to certainty now, to confidence. He watches her, both of them nude and without shame, with a poorly concealed greed, and oh how heady the rush feels, to want and to be wanted.

Dizzy and ardent in equal measure, she hastens. His hair is mussed, tunic and breeches forgotten and tossed aside, and this is the man she likes best. She does not trust the mockingbird when he leaves the walls of his room. She does not trust. The word has no meaning any longer. She thinks they are the same, in that way.

Despite the growing familiarity he is always on his back, and she always meets him by straddling his waist. If he takes issue with the position he does not say, and indeed he does not seem to mind, the lust in his leaden eyes perhaps even compounding each time she finds herself on his bed. He is hungry for this, intoxicated on her from the moment she slides next to him each night. This slip of control, this crack in his mask is a blinding light, one she relishes, one that is hers alone.

But it changes. First, Petyr Baelish is no longer content to stay on his back. Without warning, as she finds herself close to her end, he leans up to her, sitting, his spine leaving the mattress until his chest brushes against her bare breasts. He is panting, half murmurs of affection sweeping along the slope of her neck. In truth she does not mind the shift; she is still above him, she can still flee if she needs to. As long as she is not on her knees, as long as she is not beneath him she will not feel that suffocating apprehension. His nails dig into her waist, and the twinge of pain is welcome in a way it was not at first; these things take time and time and time _after…_

Next, she does not hear the door when it first opens, but he does. Her pelvis rocks still when she feels him tense against her. It takes a moment to understand that is not the tightening of his release she has learned so well, but a startling stillness. His head lifts, his back arches, feline, predatorily. It is enough to worry her, and then she hears the telltale thud of boots against the ground behind her.

Auburn hair is a waved curtain along her back, but she can guess from where she hears the clearing of a throat that the man has full view of her pale form, the curve of her waist, her bare thighs wrapped around her lover. Perhaps if it was not that unique, maternal red she might not have been recognised immediately, but there are still many left that knew her mother, and she cannot pretend she is not the lady of the castle.

Hands wrap tighter around her waist as she feels eyes on her back, but she does not turn to look; she does not want to see a familiar face.

He is still inside her when he speaks. “Such an intrusion is unwarranted. State your business here.”

There is a brief pause, as if the man does not know what to say, before he finally blurts it out. “Begging your pardon, My Lord.” The title sounds almost like a question. The men are all still at a loss as to his purpose in Winterfell. An advisor, certainly, but does he not have his own people to be concerned for? His lingering presence has been a confusing one, but the man does not seem to mind. “Lady Sansa was not in her bed. We were sent to search…” Of course there is no need to finish; the interrogator trails off, sounding more embarrassed than anything else. Sansa closes her eyes, measuring a slow inhalation, unwilling to turn to look at him.

“I see.” His words vibrate against her, chest still pressed to chest. He makes no move to cover her, and perhaps it is because movement on his part might make it worse. Their position protects most of her modesty, she decides, although perhaps he is simply _gloating._ “Well, I assure you she is quite safe.” Sansa can almost taste the smugness, the victory. She can feel the stare of the interloper, watching. Her face is burning, and despite herself she is still throbbing around him when he gives a gentle buck upward. The girl tells herself it is an unconscious motion, something lingering and surely an accident, but she knows he is staking a silent claim in front of this man. _Mine and mine and no one else’s._

“So she is.” The guard’s voice strengthens, gaining authority as he adjusts, finally, to the scene of the Lady of Winterfell straddling a man twice her age. “Lord Stark will be glad to hear it.” There is a warning in his voice that she does not miss. There is no way to stomp this back down into secrecy, no way to weave this tale in their favour.

He leaves; she is perfectly still until the steps fall away from the newly closed door. She relaxes, the tension leaving her with a heavy breath, and how long had she expected this affair to stay hidden? How long could muffled moans be ignored by passing guards?

 

A messenger is waiting outside of her door, and by the fatigued eyes she can guess he has been waiting there for hours. He tells her Jon is waiting to speak with her as soon as she is able. _Now,_ is what she gleans from the message, dripping with the courtesy learned from their father but urgent nonetheless.

She returns to her room without a word to the boy, leaving him with nothing at all to report. She shuts the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't going to do more, but I couldn't help but imagine Jon looking for Sansa one night and none of his men wanting to be the one to tell him that she's been shacking up with Subtlefinger on the sly.  
> Probably not very sly though...I have a feeling the guards would have caught sight of her once or twice, or at least heard something.  
> Awkward.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [i'm sorry to remind you but I'm scared of what we're creating]

She sits at her desk, sleep evading her. The messenger knocks from time to time, sometimes pleading, other times ordering; she ignores both. Sansa reads letters piled on the wooden surface carefully, the pledges to House Stark, pleas for protection, apologies, offers…

Fingers gently grasp a quill, dipping it into the ink before willing it to scratch against parchment. Jon was never as good as she was with letters. She smiles, one which swiftly falls away when knuckles rap once more against the wooden barrier. It is a call that cannot be ignored forever, but something petulant burrowed inside of her demands she make him wait. She needs time to consider how to approach the Lord of Winterfell, mulling over the sweet words she will tell him. They must be sweet, her words; the bitter truth might choke him the way it sometimes strangled her.

Her thoughts branch out, spreading like the twisting godswood, her actions and consequences forking until she reaching a bifurcation: which is she, which is she? A mockingbird’s seed is cool between her legs, but she is still a Stark, and she is home.

The bird wants to soar, she knows, his aim is high and wings are swift. His green eyes scour for a lofty perch to make his own. But the other, well, he is contrary. Her lupine sibling prefers the soft ground, a solid earth to root him. She is not sure which she prefers. There are no wolves in the sky and no birds with teeth so sharp. But beasts can reach high places with other means; they can climb, and birds use stealth and talon to pose their threats and claim their prey. Which is she? 

 

When morning arrives she goes to him.

He is busy, he is always busy now; there is so much to do. Repairs, alliances, tending to the wounded and dead that have yet to be claimed. She did not expect it to take so long, or for the smell of death and rot to linger for months in place of days. And more, she expected to be a part of it, not some idle creature to be pitied or ignored. Willing those thoughts away she sees him ahead, speaking to Davos. Their discussion seems heated, but they quiet before she is close enough to hear. A nod in the older man’s direction and he is dismissed, looking all too worse for the wear.

There is no humour in his eyes when he looks at her. “Where were you last night?”

Ah, and so there will be no preamble to this. She thinks that if it were Petyr he would dance around the question, waltzing about until he did not even have to ask for him to find his answer. Different creatures altogether, she muses.

When she does not respond immediately another question bursts out. His ire reminds her of her father; it hurts worse that way. “Did he touch you?”

She is swift to answer, then. “No.” But there are tiny bruises on her hips wrought from pleasure that might disagree, if he had cause to look. “I couldn’t sleep.”

His eyes narrow. “What were you doing in his room, Sansa?” She hears what he does not say, hidden in the worry thick in his voice. Hadn’t she been the one to lay out the warnings in the first place? _Only a fool would trust the clever bird_ ; there is more to him than what he says.

The best sort of lies are ones that aren’t very specific. He had told her that once, she thinks. She remembers it now. “Borrowing books. He has so many…”

Jon knows she is lying, or at least disguising the truth. He wants to press the matter, he wants to demand a better answer from her. She can see the struggle, and she sees it fall away as Tormund approaches with some urgent matter, dividing his attention enough that Sansa can slip away. The little wolf is more thankful than she thought she would be; she does not want to lie to him. She does not want to see the disappointment, the anger, the fear in his eyes when he can no longer deny it.

 

 

He catches her alone in the early evening, as she makes her way to the dining hall. His hand sweeps around her waist, tugging her into the empty room to her side. She makes a startled noise which stops midway when she sees just who has a mind to grab her. Ringed fingers are cool on her jaw, she catches a glimpse of greying temples, and her form relaxes. Still, she has little patience for surprises such as these; her now-dead husband has robbed her of the romance in it all.

Before she can think the door is shut and her spine aligns with the stoney surface of the wall. His mouth is on her neck, open and warm, unabashed. A familiar palm slides down and finds her waist while his other hand bunches in her dress, the space between them nothing, nothing at all now.

This is different; the sun still ebbs in the distance. There is light yet in the sky and this man is pressing, wanting, ruining their unspoken game. She manages to form a question at least, amongst the warmth, the anticipation flowing through her now, and the words are a whisper against his ear. “What are you doing?”

The man breathes out a laugh, soft as he manoeuvres her skirts, her smallclothes before tugging at his breeches. “I wasn’t finished.” He says simply, the cavalier words betrayed with the edges of low lust surrounding them. And he touches her. 

“Don’t you want to come, sweet Sansa?”

She nods into his shoulder, a quiet moan escaping.

“Say it.” His is warm, hard against her now, and she knows they must be quick. And the poor girl she is can think of nothing she wants more.

A plea leaves her mouth, not coherent enough to be the sentiment he asked for, and so he asks again. “I need to hear you say it. Sansa.” And he _does_ need it; she can hear that he does, see that he needs those consenting words from her. Now, even in the daytime he is slipping, faltering for her alone.

She smiles, she says his name. She says what he wants. And moments later when he draws that pleasure from her it is sweet.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [this life is a farce. i can't breathe through this mask. like a fool]

He finds her before she can make it to her room, and she is certain he’s been searching for her since dinner, desperate for a moment alone to continue their discussion. She tries to mutter some excuse about being tired, she tries to escape, but it is clear Jon is not going to accept her refusal this time. He is stubborn, like their sister, like their father. 

The map is in the middle still as he leads them in to the familiar area they have their war discussions. Some of the pieces have changed since she was last there, subtle shifts but ones that are noticeable, and she considers just how many meetings she is no longer invited to. He does not close the door, and wonders idly if it is for her own comfort, or if he does not think to shut it. Another difference between the two men; Petyr would never leave a route for eavesdropping. He is too careful, Jon is not careful enough. 

Which is wiser, in the end? 

Her legs are dry with come, her hair is surely not as pristine as it was before the tryst against the wall, and she wonders if he can see it, if he can smell the sin and shame on her. Is he still so blind not to notice just how hopelessly tangled she is? Is he pretending she is still the same girl he knew years ago, the one who wanted nothing more than to be a princess, than to be surrounded by love and beauty and nice things? She wants to ask, she wants to yell, but instead she watches, waits for him to speak with a firm jaw.

He takes a step toward her, and she thinks he is going to embrace her for a half second before he stops. Had she flinched? She isn’t sure, but his look is a defeated one, until he scans her neck, his gaze hardening at what she guesses is a telltale mark of affection along the slope of her neck. “What has he done to you, Sansa?” His hands curve into fists and he is ready to make a move, now. “I’ll kill him. Say the word.” And he wants her to say it, she can see that clearly. And some small part of her might even want to. 

She puts a palm up, calm while he is fury, prepared to lie once more but giving him truth instead. The girl owes him that. “He has done nothing I did not ask for.” _Begged for._ “He has been…kind to me, since the battle.” Her words are crafted to soothe, to placate, to dissolve the rage that is building in him.

Jon shakes his head. The man is very much a boy in this moment, disbelief plain in his stare; he is still very young, and so is she. Sometimes she forgets; she feels so impossibly old. “He can’t stay here. He leaves in the morning.” His words are thick, honest, when he finally speaks again, and for a moment she hears her father’s words in his. “I should have saved you, Sansa.”

Her smile is sad. “You could not have saved me. You were dead.” It is a blow akin to a slap, and his face winces in response. It does not halt her; she has needed to say this to him for a long time. “You were dead and I’m just a Bolton widow, a whore. They heard me scream every night for him, you know. They did nothing. It is not you I blame."

"You're no whore, Sansa. You're a Stark." Still, he is pained, ill-prepared for the daggers she is throwing. “I’m sorry.” It is an apology she takes, and it is the only one she has accepted in years. She has not forgiven Petyr Baelish, she might never, but Jon has done nothing so terrible as he. And so the girl moves, her arms lifting to give him what he had asked for, wrapping herself around him to comfort, to be comforted. They are kin; they will not be at odds, no matter what schemes her lover is planning.

It is a mantra she will repeat, later.

“Do not trust him, not for a minute, but do not send him away.” _He would not like that,_ she tells herself, ignoring the pang in her chest, the reminder that she would miss him if he left, despite everything. Who else looks at her the way he does, without pity, without a guarded narrowing of eyes? The stare he saves for her are always ones of recognition, of sameness, of something in himself calling to something in her. There is no one else, there is no one else.

And what a sad state it is, that she cannot tell him this, cannot confide in Jon. The life she had pictured for herself once is a cruel joke of a memory, when her bastard brother is a proclaimed king, when her nights are spent warming the bed of a brothel keeper. When the only happiness she knows are the moments spent with the man who sold her to a monster. She knows something must change, she knows it cannot continue this way, but she is willing to be patient. He taught her to be patient.

Jon goes still, suddenly, pulling away from her. He is looking toward the door, he is scowling. “Baelish.”

For a moment it does not register, but of course she remembers the door is open, and she does not need to turn to know he is standing in that entryway, watching the reconciliation. She does not need to turn, but she does anyway; her arms fall from Jon.

He is smiling. It is a genial thing, but Sansa can see the satisfaction behind it; she knows him better than he thinks. "Are you quite ready to retire, my lady? I can walk you to your chambers, if you would like." 

Oh, Jon might kill him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> petyr is a little shit.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [now that i've found you and seen behind those eyes
> 
> how can i carry on]

Lord Baelish leads her away, ignoring the scowl on Jon’s face, and she can't believe he lets him. Sansa sighs, wishing it was all different, the press of his fingers along her back guiding her down the hall and to her room. And of course there is a man set to guard the door, watching her lover with unwavering resolve. Sansa feels the irritation prickle again, that Jon does not trust her, that she feels imprisoned once more in her own home.

The man watching over her quarters does not seem to bother Petyr Baelish. In fact, the look on his face, the tilt of his mouth, speaks more of amusement than anything. He does so love a good game, does he not? “Do not worry overmuch, my darling girl.” His palm sweeps down her waist in a blatant display of affection, his words a whisper in her ear as the guard watches with narrowed eyes. “He will grow bored of the scandal once we find him a match of his own.”

 _Match._ An interesting choice of words; Petyr rarely says such things without purpose. “Are we a match, Lord Baelish?” An eyebrow raises, curious, and perhaps something more. “Equals in all things?”

His smile is playful, and she wonders if it is a display for the guard. “There was never a doubt.” He response, she knows ( _she thinks_ ) is not an act. He is bold to kiss her cheek then, within their small audience’s line of sight. She is bolder, perhaps, to accept it without pause.

That does not mean she will let the smug advance pass without a counter. “You must endeavour to prove it to me, then. I am not some piece for you to parade in front of my brother.” Her tone has a bite to it, small teeth to dig into flesh, to remind him that they are in _her_ home, that he has no reign in the land their feet are settled on. Still, she does not tell him to leave as Jon wants her to; she can not watch him find his way back to the Vale and leave her with none but her brother as company.

No one else understands. _She can’t._

“Piece?” His smile flees then, and she wonders if that word sparks the same memory in him that it does in her. She had asked once if she was a piece, a lifetime ago when he'd told her of the players and the game. The answer he had given her had been disheartening, shameful even. She has fretted over it in the past, sleepless nights in the Eyrie, sleepless nights in the North. Now, his fingers sweep over her cheek, and she has difficulty finding anything that is not earnest in his expression. For once. “No, never a piece. Not anymore, my sweet Sansa.”

With that, the mask falls into place again. He smiles at the outsider observing. He leaves without another word.

 

She does not sleep the first night, and scarcely the second. What a shameful situation, that she misses him so, that her own bed seems foreign to her limbs, that her own room is a cage without him at her side. And Jon is no better as time passes, refusing to acknowledge the guard at her door, or the way Petyr seems to be taking more and more liberties. He stills attends meetings, but Jon seems less impressed with his advice.

At dinner, he takes the chair next to hers; he moves too close. Their legs are almost touching, and once or twice he makes sure they do. She sees the tension in Jon’s jawline but the boy ruler says nothing.

 

She ought to have expected it, that after several nights the former Master of Coin might grow tired of their forced abstinence, and that he might use his guile or funds to coerce a bargain. He smiles when he slips into her bed, uninvited but not unwelcome, and he sounds so very pleased when he notes how easily the men of Winterfell fall victim to something as simple as payment.

Sansa should be irritated, she supposes, that he is exposing the noble men of her lands as easily bought, but the warmth of him makes it difficult. She relaxes into his chest, her spine finding a home against him, and she cannot help but sigh in contentment when he presses warm lips along her neck.

“My queen.” He whispers, and she knows just what he means when he says it. Intent, a goal, _a promise_. The line, she knows, in being drawn in the snow, in the soil, and Petyr seems to be dictating location and breadth of it.

This is what it takes for her to halt his movements, for her to pull away enough to turn and face him. “He’s my brother.”

He leans up on his elbow, looking down at her. She knows him well, better than anyone she thinks, but she cannot tell what lies behind his eyes when he speaks next. “And if he wasn’t?”

It takes a moment for her to respond, confused and slow. “What do you mean?”

He is nothing if not patient with her then, prompting a discussion. If there is one thing he loves more than their more carnal acts, it is an opportunity for _educating._ “If he was some young upstart holding a claim he did not possess, supported by the lords of the North for a battle won and not the blood in his veins, would you feel the same?”

 _But he isn’t._ She shakes her head. “He _has_ a claim. He’s half Stark, Petyr.”

“Yes, he is.” He leans and hums agreement into her neck, nuzzling there for a moment. She closes her eyes, enjoying it despite his twisting words. His touch muddles her mind, and as much as she knows it is a weakness she does not stop him. Not until his words permeate once more. “Half Stark. But which half?”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [and the masks, that the monsters wear  
> to feed, upon their prey...]

She is not invited to the meeting, and as she peeks her head through the door to eavesdrop she sees exactly why.

It is not a true meeting; Jon is not there, and most of the other attendants are missing as well. It is Petyr and it is Davos, the former flanked by a Vale man and the latter by a northerner. She sees the tensed muscles in them both, and she wonders how long they have been having this discussion. Their voices are low and she must angle her ear just so to hear what they are both upset about.

It does not take long for her to discern what the topic of their heated words has come to. “What game are you playing at, Lord Baelish?” The _Lord_ is a courtesy not heard at all in his tone. He does not think much of her lover. It is not a surprise to Sansa at all; he has had his boots planted firmly in Jon’s camp for as long as she has known him.

She silently reprimands herself then, as she thinks, when she realised she has divided herself from her brother in her mind. There is no dissection, as much as the mockingbird might want it, if Sansa does not make it that way. And she won't, _she won't._

The girl considers the man at odds with Baelish, perhaps for the first time. He has recently taken a shining to Lyanna Mormont, and she thinks if not for Jon he would spend his days advising the young ruler on her wintry island. She has heard about Lord Stannis’ daughter, and she wonders if this helps to mend the hurt. Not a replacement, for she knows how poor such imitations are, but a distraction, progression. She wonders if he still hurts terribly, the way she hurts for her own family. She wonders where his own family is, if he has one at all. 

They do not give her any more time for idle, stray thoughts. “Game?” Petyr breaths a tiny chuckle, a mocking thing. “I play no game, Ser Onion Knight, unless you are asking for one.” Always baiting, always diverting, and Sansa might be impressed if she weren’t listening so intently, if she didn't think it was bordering on cruel. “What shall it be, then? Cyvasse? Do you enjoy moving the pieces around by chance as you do in reality, or do you employ the strategy you lack as an advisor?”

His aloof behaviour only turns Davos more sour, but he steels himself; he has been goaded before. “You think I am a fool, and you think the same of Jon. He sees your aim, and will not hesitate to call for your head if you take another step out of line.”

Another step? Her brows furrow as she endeavours to remain a quiet observer. She wonders if his casual displays of affection are what he speaks of, or if he has done something else. Neither would be unexpected, but her lack of knowledge grates her.

And with that pointed threat Petyr is no longer so amused, although the smile is still plastered on his face. “Are you a betting man, Davos?”

His silence is enough to urge the younger man on.

“But you were a smuggler once, yes? And so you bet on your life each time you set sail. You wagered on the trust of your buyers, your sellers.” He took a step closer to the man, and Sansa worried for them both. “Strange that we should both end up here, both of us pooling our gold for the final match.” Another pause, and she could see fists forming at either side of Davos. Still, he continued, the final push. “If I were you I would bet on the girl. Put those _bastardly_ thoughts out of mind.”

“If you touch her..” She has never really spoken to Davos, and so his concern is almost baffling.

He was smiling truly then, smug, and she knew she would take that comment and run with it. “If?" A chuckle, and he leaned in as if telling a secret. "Far too late for that, my foolish friend. I have touched, I have tasted.” The man had enough sense to take a step again back before another syllable left his mouth, the grin only widening. “Are you jealous? Poor man. Perhaps the Red Woman would have given you a sympathy fucking if you’d asked _very nicely.”_

Davos lunges at that, and the northern man hastens to keep him from attacking Petyr. And this is where the thread snaps for Sansa. She cannot make excuses for him in that moment, and so she doesn’t try to. Feet carry her into the room, and both men are caught off guard. She allows a moment to be secretly pleased she managed to surprise them before her jaw sets, her eyes cold on the younger man. “That’s enough, Lord Baelish.”

At those words both men relax a bit; perhaps neither intend on continuing this fight in front of her. What a strange scene it was, that both men are cowed by a girl so much younger than them. Petyr speaks first, an incline of his head in acknowledgement. “Of course my lady.” He says the words as if he has not just been bragging his conquest. He says them as a lover, and Sansa is not pleased.

She looks from him and to the other, then. “Attend to your Lord, Ser Davos.” _And I’ll attend to mine_ , the words are left unsaid but the intent rolls off her in waves. He seems hesitant to leave for a moment, eyes narrowing in the way a man concerned with chivalry is used to, but when he sees the rage in her eyes he makes his way out of the room, slowly. Petyr nods to the man clad in Arryn blue as well, and soon enough they are alone.

She does not give him a second to explain; if she does she knows she will lose her nerve. The girl rushes to him, no affection in her manner, and reaches her hand up until fingers grip his chin firmly, as a mother might scold a child. “Careful Lord Baelish.” Her words are daggers, biting into him. “You do yourself no favours insulting the few that seek to defend you.”

He is hiding whatever emotion he might be feeling; he is terribly good at it, but she does not miss the way he flinches at her touch. “Do you seek to defend me?” His own arm moves up and he clasps her wrist gently, a warning she does not heed.

She is in no mood for the teasing; she will not be played. “That was the last time. Next time he can have you.”

He smiles sadly at her then, and she is nothing if not confused. “Unfortunate. He’s not the one I want to have.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [recognise the poison in my heart]

She discovers what he has done by chancing into the rookery. The girl introduces herself to the northern boy who watches the birds and takes the incoming missives to those they are addressed to. He is young, and perhaps that is why it is so easy to convince him to let a little thing slip, news of a parchment received from a sender far, far away, from a warmer place, one she has no desire to return to. He is terrified when he realises he has given away this information; he was paid well by a ringed hand to keep it from prying eyes and ears.

Sansa does not reassure him as she might have in the past; that bribery is running rampant in the North is something that needs remedied. She will not have her lands polluted with such things.

At first she is angry. She is already furious with him still, from his argument with Davos, but now she is livid. He has not told her a thing, not during their meetings with Jon and not in private, when they are spent and curled against each other. Sansa wants to confront him, remind him that he is meant to be her equal, but she is nothing if not patient now; she will find out more, if she is able.

And more she does discover. There is a meeting, and for the first time Petyr is the one who is absent. When Jon asks, Davos tells them he is indisposed. Sansa takes this to mean he was threatened, and her stare is a warning to the man at least twice her senior. At any rate, Jon seems relieved by the news; as much as he needs the former Master of Coin, it is no secret that he is coming to despise the man.

It is a meeting he will be sore that he missed. Lord Baelish is not the only one that received a letter from the south. A battle has been fought and won there, it seems, and Jon _Stark’s_ presence is requested to swear fealty to the new ruler. It is a frightfully cryptic message, and one that bears no seal. One that speaks of reconciliation between kin with no clarification. 

After hours of arguing Jon decides he will go, even as Davos storms out, convinced it is a trap. Sansa is unsure, but she cannot help remembering her father’s summons to King’s Landing, a summons he did not return from. She does not want to see the same fate for Jon. She tells him as much, and he hugs her. He tells her he’ll be fine, and of course she cannot help but wonder.

When have any of them ever been fine?

 

He comes to her that night, and she turns her back to him. She hears a soft laugh, amused, and she feels the bed dip with his weight anyway. “Are you very cross with me, my lady?” He wraps his arms around her waist and she feels he has shed his tunic for the night.

She doesn’t turn to look at him. When she speaks it is to the wall. “You’re a liar.” It is a childish thing to say, but it’s true, and she can’t find it in her to care about how foolish accusations sound.

He pauses and takes a slow breath; she thinks he is smelling her hair as his nose burrows into her locks. “You know about the letter.”

It is her turn to laugh, an exasperated one. “Yes. You’re lying again, you’re not telling me what you’re up to.” She tries to pull away, or push at his arm but he holds her tighter and gods, the poor girl can’t fight the only warmth she feels in her cold home. She moves in his hold until she is on her back, looking up to him when he props himself up on his shoulder, his free arm still along her middle.

And he does something next that she is not expecting. “Ask me. I’ll tell you now.”

She has so many questions, and there’s no way for her to know when he will grow tired of them, or whether he will tell the truth at all. “What did you do with your men? Did you send them south?”

He nods; he will answer. “Do you think my men fled back to the Vale to do more of nothing after a battle as satisfying as this one?” He grins. “Oh no, my darling girl, they still thirsted for blood, and so I gave them a new war.”

“A new war?” She can guess, of course. In all likelihood she already knows; the pieces are not difficult to put together now that she knows where the letter is from, and whose seal it bears.

But he is all too happy to supply her with answers, to boast. “The Targaryen queen was entirely pleased to see fresh allies when her forces swept in to take the throne from the lions. She has dragons, you know. Three of them. I’ve no interest in seeing them fly here with warring breath in their lungs.” He leans down to peck her lips, a chaste thing, and because it is brief she allows him.

She narrows her eyes when he pulls away, curiosity writ plain in her face. “She has taken King’s Landing, and you helped her?”

A eyebrow quirks. “More than helped, really. Whose forces were there to capture the fleeing Lannister queen when she tried to sneak out through forgotten pathways?" His question needs no answer, but he gives her one anyway. "Men carrying my sigil brought Cersei to her as a welcoming gift.” He doesn’t even try to not sound pleased, he is radiating the satisfaction he has from this turn of events.

And so she continues. “But why?”

His fingers toy with her nightdress, his stare sliding down her neck and back up again before he speaks again. “What do you think my reward was for such services?”

Well, she does not have to think much on that. What does he always want? As much as he can take. And what would a new ruler be prepared to give to loyal servants? “She gave you the Vale.”

He nods, and he has the look of a man who received exactly what he wanted, or more, perhaps. She does not know what to say, but she does not push him away this time, when he presses closer. “Properly now, although I think I’ll keep young Sweetrobin as a ward until he passes. It will make the transition smoother for the less appeased lords. Royce, for one. He was never very fond of me.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> 
> 
>  
> 
>   
> 
> 
>  
> 
> [stand, stand, damned one]
> 
>   
> 

It is not until the morning of Jon’s departure that the hand is shown. She can see her breath in front of her, and for a half moment she is fiercely jealous of her brother, making his way down to a much warmer clime. _Perhaps he will never come back here_ , she thinks, and for the first time she can feel a shameful, hopeful sensation in her gut. She is unsure of whether it stems from a desire to see his games with Lord Baelish end, or worse, to keep him away for a more selfishly rooted desire. _Am I so terrible a girl to see him gone, truly?_

Petyr’s words slip into her mind like warm mist. _You were made to be a queen._ She pushes them away just as swiftly as they form, Jon’s silhouette barely visible in the distance, now, but it is difficult to keep them gone. They hover and twist in front of her, the fog of her breath spelling words she would see away and away. They are immobile wisps in her constant field of sight, and perhaps this is the moment she begins to understand herself.

Something changes once the bastard is gone. A shift, a tilt, a final settling after years of turmoil. She feels it in the in air as if the tension was something slowly suffocating her and is now evaporating with the night. The girl cannot help a lingering guilt for it.

The sun is barely risen, a full half still buried along the horizon. It is in that moment that she hears the first whispers, and she wonders if she is finally losing her mind. _My Queen, My Queen_ , as she walks along the thick walls of her home. Not Lady Stark, and not even a Lady Bolton made in error. Not Sansa. A stable boy utters the words in a hush, and then a maid in the hall. _My Queen_ , says a solider, one from the North that she remembers kneeling to her departed, terrible husband. _My Queen_ , from a lingering Vale man, the Arryn sigil proudly on his chest. _My Queen_ , and with each utterance it sounds more right.

And perhaps that is a lesson in itself. One she has no one to share with. No one save-

Of course he is there. He is always there, waiting. Green and grey and _might he be hers?_ He sees the lifeless parts of her, eyes prying beneath skin to where the vital things inside have come to rot and wither. Hope, happiness, love; what are they to a girl with nothing left to grasp? The rot, she finds, the putrid viscera inside, is something that he once had, or something he still has (she cannot say; she does not have his clever eyes, not quite yet).

Jon is gone and Davos is gone and all she has now is Petyr.

“My Queen.” This is the moment he has been waiting for; she can see it in his posture, in the curl of his fingers, in the freshly polished mockingbird pin. It does not sound like any way he has said the words before; not to Cersei, not to the Rose Queen, not to any of them, and she cannot be sure if that makes it genuine. There is so much about him that appears to be so, but others have been fooled by less, and she will never let herself forget it.

It is strange then, for all her doubts of him, and all her worry for Jon, that the only thing that slips form her lips is: “I cannot do this alone.”

Oh, and the clever bird is ready with a counter, and she thinks of a card game rather than a conversation. Bets and raises and gambling with more than anything as simple as money. “Marry me, then.”

It is the last thing she expects, and she cannot hold back a surprised laugh. It is nerves, it is a weight lifted, and as Jon grows farther from her home she feels less afloat. “How can I refuse such a sweeping gesture? You surely know how to romance a woman.”

He smiles, and is not taken aback. More than anyone living, he knows her. She wonders if she can say the same about him. “Is that a yes?”

She is serious again when she speaks. “No. I won’t. I won’t marry again, not for money or power or love.” Her head is held high, and he will have no room to question her resolve.

An eyebrow lifts as he walks her inside, his arm outstretched to guide her through the doorway before settling on her back. “And do you love me, Sansa?”

Love. She remembers the feeling, surely, in years spent around the halls they walked now. Remembers, but does not hold so dearly to that recollection anymore. Love does little in war; love slit her mother’s throat, killed her brothers, made her into a fool. It does little else, in her experience. There are more important traits to cultivate. “Does it matter, truly?”

She leads, and he follows; his palm is pressed along her spine, a gentle guide. He wants her, he wants Winterfell, and knowing what he desires is her greatest weapon.

And he will want more soon enough. He has been given an inch and he will sprint his mile before long, this much she knows.

And she will be ready.


End file.
